


King and Lionheart

by lagatta



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, F/M, Gen, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagatta/pseuds/lagatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 drabbles on Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye's unspoken bond. Everything from forbidden love to loss to coffee breaks and clandestine Sunday mornings, in both AU and canon FMA:B style. Each "chapter" is one drabble - so don't expect chronological continuity between drabbles.</p><p>(Usually G, occasionally T for violence and death, M for sexual themes).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New

_Swip. Swip_. The low, rhythmic strum of impatient fingers echoed through the mostly empty office. The sun had barely risen on a promising new day, and the smell of coffee in the outer hall wafted gently in through the open doorway, creating a deceptive feeling of warmth and safety. Riza, yawning more from boredom than because of real exhaustion, tipped the coffee into his brand-new, bone-white mug. Every morning, it was the same. Dark roast, ashen blend. Strong initial impact, but no real flavor.

As if he cared what it tasted like. The drink was only pretense; only necessary for the appearance of normalcy.

"Your coffee, sir." Blunt, efficient, and to the point, as always. A new office did not warrant a new personality, nor did it require any semblance of the same sort of deception from  _her_.

He smiled, and sipped lightly, mug perched almost delicately in his hands. Another deception; the Furher was anything but delicate. "Ah, thank you, Riza. A nice cup of coffee is just the thing I need in the mornings." Her name sounded new and broken in his mouth. She clenched and unclenched weary hands behind her back.  _Riza_. Coming from his lips, it was hardly her name anymore

"Yes, sir".

It would only be a matter of time before the Colonel contacted her. Then, a bit longer after that before a new government could take power.

_I wonder if he remembered to bring an extra set of gloves to work this morning._

The Fuhrer's assistant: a flattering seat, to be sure. New teammates, a new list of items to attend to, a new daily routine. A new office, smelling of cleaning supplies, burnt, lifeless coffee, and frantic despair, and new boots, made from the Fuhrer's finest leather.

A promotion would make any sensible soldier happy, but here, where the air was stifled in artificial sunlight, there was a monster standing over her.

 

 

And this new place was  _anything_ but home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riza: "No, YOU make ME a cup of tea! /slaps/"


	2. Broken

"Riza Hawkeye. For the last time, it's broken. Put it down already." Berthold Hawkeye intoned tiredly, patting very young daughter on the head and removing the wooden bird from her little hands. He sighed, bemused. Ignoring his commands, she had already began to try and put the wings back together. A low chuckle escaped his lips when Riza looked up at him expectantly, holding out her glue covered hands. Fix it, daddy. Berthold was an alchemist. A scientist. He lived in a world of absolutes, of laws that were not to be tampered with, lest you be forced to face the dire consequences. If a stray figure was out of line during his calculations, he simply crossed out the mistake and inked it back into its rightful spot. Broken jars were thrown away, cracked vials disposed of properly. Inconsistencies were swept out, inadequacies fixed by upgrading to the latest materials. He had never understood the girl's desire to fix anything and everything that was deemed by her father to be broken. He did not appreciate finding his old, shredded notes taped meticulously back together and left outside his door.

To him, to alchemy, "broken" was a curse, an insult, a death sentence.  
To her, it meant survival. It meant another chance at being worth something. At being alive and useful in some _better_ way.  
  
To her, "broken" was a gift.

So when the Flame Alchemist seemed to almost stare through her after dark, soul-searing nights in Ishval, she wasn't disheartened. The despair looming in his obsidien eyes did not rattle her resolve. "I'm a broken man," Roy murmured in a moment of crushing sorrow, laughing bitterly, despondently, overcome by stentch of burning flesh and the blood covering every inch of their skin. Riza merely sighed, wrapping a supportive arm around his torso. "No," she murmured emphatically, pressing dry lips to dusty raven's feathers.

"...no. You're _alive_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think that when Riza was very young, Berthold tried to be an attentive father, especially after her mother died. That he grew more distant as she grew older. I'd also like to think that Riza has a penchant for "fixing" things that her dad threw out in his studies, and left little duct-tape-ed containers outside of his door that she fished out of the garbage. Berthold didn't really get it, but thought it was cute. For, like, a month.
> 
> I just have a lot of feelings about Berthold and Riza okay


	3. Hope

"…and what", Riza asked, malice dripping from ever syllable, tapping her gun grip with rising impatience, "exactly, do you think you're doing?"

Trick question. Obviously guilty, the criminal gulped. He could feel the heat creeping over his features as he childishly attempted to hid behind floppy black forelocks. For such a beautiful woman, the threat of Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye's wrath sent even Major Armstrong running in primal fear. Mustang claimed that it was honestly nothing more than a case of mistaken lunch identity, that he had let his growling stomach override other survival instincts, but in reality, he had been hooked on Riza's cooking ever since the unit picnic last July. Regardless, Hawkeye was known not to sympathize with anyone who broke one of the many unspoken office codes, and number one was do not touch Hawkeye's food.

…something that Roy Mustang knew far too well. He could only hope she was feeling merciful.

He swallowed the last bit of roast-beef-and-swiss-on-rye before attempting a small grin, mustard stains making a proverbial scarlet letter on his jacket. A cocky glint appeared in his eyes.

"Oh, Lieutenant. There you are. I hope you know that you have excellent taste."

The Lieutenant, in excellent taste, merely smiled and clicked the safety off her gun.  
The Great Flame Alchemist, in healthy fear, whimpered.


	4. Chapter 4

He was going to find whoever had convinced him that porcupines were friendly. He was going to find them, and he was going to kill them.

"It really doesn't hurt that badly, Mustang," Riza commented with forced nonchalance. She didn't move, though. She couldn't. Sores, left by quills that were moments ago embedded in the bottoms of her feet, prevented any attempts at a quick retreat. Watching her trembling chin, he suspected she had to hate being rendered immobile even more than she despised being doted on.  
"Do you want Berthold to think I'm totally useless? He'll kick me out for letting you get beat up by a porcupine." The damp rag found its way to her heel, soaking away any residual aches. It was a pathetic attempt at helping her feel better, he was sure, but Roy felt personally responsible for the girl's well-being. Squeezing her hand, he yanked the last quill from her soft, little feet. "You didn't have to follow me, though. I would have been fine."  
Riza grimaced at the sudden pain. "But you'd never seen a porcupine before, and those boys had convinced you that the quills were soft and that they made good house-pets. Though I don't get how you could believe that in the first place, you know they're mad that you got chosen as his apprentice, so really, anything they tell you is probably some form of sabotage...and you need your hands for alchemy, so if they had gotten injured by the quills, father would have kicked you out anyway for being useless. I'm not important enough for him to worry about, so it's really better tha–"  
"Okay, okay, fine." Sighing heavily, he began to wrap the offending wounds. Hopefully, there wasn't an infection. "And as a result of all that, you followed me and kicked the porcupine away from me before I could grab it. Thanks, I guess. I still wish you hadn't have gotten hurt, though."  
"...wait," He looked up, questioningly, meeting tense, amber eyes. "Did you say you're not important?"

The adamant stare faded and was hidden behind thick golden eyelashes. Her fingers curled in silent defiance. "Well, he doesn't _need_ me, and I'm not good at alchemy, so yes. It's not a big deal."

Roy stared at her incredulously before cupping her pale cheeks in wet hands. "Don't say that."  
"Don't say w-"  
"That you're unimportant. I think you're important."  
Midnight black settled on a honey-wheat field. Riza struggled for a moment against the sudden embrace, but Roy refused to pull away. "We're friends. I don't care what your father thinks." He said firmly.

"You're definitely important. You're important to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LITTLE ROY AND RIZA -screams-  
> I didn't have Riza call Roy "Mr. Mustang", because this was presumably before he left for the military. I feel like she probably started calling him that after he returned from training as a symbol of how far she felt from him all of a sudden. Cries.  
> Before that, it was probably "hot-head" and "horse-boy".


	5. Doorway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcannon: Roy likes sappy soppy poetry and horrible metaphors and John Donne and calls Riza the flame of his heart. Then she elbows him in the stomach and kisses his forehead for being an idiot.
> 
> Wow, this is crack.

 

* * *

  
**OFFICE MEMOS** :  
Remember: keep the memos appropriate and work-related. the function of this board is to maximize efficiency.  
Havoc, this is not the place to post your phone number.  
Signed,  
Lieutenant Hawkeye

* * *

 

Colonel Mustang:  
The documents on the right of your desk are of the utmost priority. Please attend to that pile before the blue slips and transfer requests. Additionally, Havoc has started another betting pool about us, which must be dealt with accordingly.  
Lieutenant Hawkeye.

_E -_  
Flame of my life,  
if I could but kiss your hand,  
I could die in bliss.  
\- R

Colonel:  
You're sitting right next to me. At your desk, as a matter of fact, right in front of that giant pile of paperwork that needs your signature. Writing me ridiculous haikus in bad humor, filled with horrible puns, and leaving them tacked to the doorway for all to see is just a waste of time and energy.  
Lieutenant Hawkeye

_E -_  
But, dearest little bird,  
you hath given me new eyes,  
I see your fair smile  
\- R

Sir:  
I'm smiling because I'm thinking of all the different guns I'm currently carrying. Keep that in mind while you continue to neglect your work and spew out idiotic fluff. Shouldn't you be writing this for Jeanne or Mary-Ann? I'm sure they'd appreciate your use of monosyllables. If they can read them.  
Hawkeye

_E -  
Oh, darling, you have warmed my cold heart with your love!  
Soothed my pains with your tender embrace!  
_ _My heart burns for you alone!_  
 _All others pale beside your amber eyes and firey tongue!_  
 _I shall lay in a hurricane if it would prove the burning passion!_  
 _Triumphantly, I will shout my love for you from mountaintops!_  
 _\- R_  
  
Roy,  
Get down off your desk  
That was not a haiku,  
I hope you like the couch.  
\- _Elizabeth_  
P.S. – I have five firearms, and you have a five second head start.


	6. Breathless

In a world where nearly nothing was certain, where each minute alive was a gift, and where new horrors revealed themselves in every sleepless night, moments of peace had to be savored. For a few blissful hours every Saturday morning, Riza allowed herself to relax. She still rose fairly early – old habits are hard to break – but instead of lacing cold, glistening boots over rough, military-issue cornflower pants, she tugged her worn tennis shoes out of the back of the closet, pulling a soft, summer sweater over bare skin. Hayate and Riza had developed a habit over the past months of walking together in the community park in downtown Central. Unable to relax in her own, too-quiet, home, the park was far enough away from Headquarters that Hawkeye was able to find solace in the natural hideaway. In the hushed sound of Hayate's steps on the dusty path. In the little, scattered, gentle callings of brush-birds and spring toads. The small noises were centering, reminders that her feet were still planted firmly on the earth, that the world was continuing its rotations regardless of what the silly and infinitesimally small humans did to one other over politics. A complete silence would afford too much time for introspection, for regret.

And in Riza's line of work, there was no time for regret.

It is a gift, then, a lucky, greedily accepted boon, that she has Saturday mornings off. Sometimes, though, there were more than two sets of footprints left in Central Park. Roy always goes to work on Saturdays, but, inclement weather or not, you can be certain the Flame Alchemist will willingly abandon his post for an hour in favor of wandering off into the park, following signs only he could decipher, a call only he could hear. If you were patient, you would see two figures in the distance, emerging on the hill farthest away from the command headquarters, hands intertwined, as another small silhouette ran circles in the fresh air. No one was certain if they rose over the gentle hill and disappeared into the blinding sunshine, or returned to the forest after gazing over the fields. On the first Saturday, Havoc was sure he had seen a shared kiss, but Fuery dismissed it as a trick of the light. Breda blamed it on an illusion developed by working long hours, and Fallman merely insisted that prying would be bad form.  
The matter is discussed every Saturday, to no avail, different theories and hypothetical answers cropping up as easily as paperwork collecting on their desks. Every Saturday, Havoc boasts that he'll ask the Colonel right out and resolve the dispute once and for all. Though every Saturday, when their superiors return with clothing askew and both slightly breathless, no one says a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this one. It's...ah...yeah. I don't know. I started off with one ending in mind, and then Roy's Boys kind of headbutted their way in and took over the story. Which is, actually, 100% okay with me.


	7. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I'm just a really corny writer. Lemme alone.

"...you know, if you had wanted some time alone with me, all you really had to do was ask."  
"Shut up. Your sarcasm is not appreciated."  
"Just trying to lighten the situation."  
"Oh please. You're enjoying this."  
It was too dark to see clearly, but the snicker tickling her ear was more than enough indication of his nearness. "Well. Why not?"  
As was the warm body brushing occasionally against hers.  
Riza sighed, unamused. "This is  _your_ fault."  
"My fault?"  
"Yes, your fault. If you hadn't been so 'persistent' – "  
" – I think you mean  _persuasive_  – "  
" – this is a  _business environment_  and if you can't keep yourself professional – "  
" –  _as if_  you weren't thinking the same thing, making those eyes at me from across the room –"  
" – we have  _enough_  to conceal already with you wanting to become Fuhrer and the possibility of military corruption without having to physically hide in –"  
" – and  _then_  you had to go and take your hair down when we both know perfectly well what that does to my already limited – "  
"I was  _COLD,_ " she hissed.  
"It's  _THE MIDDLE OF SUMMER_!" he whispered harshly back.  
Silence. Their breath mingled in the small space, making the already stuffy closet hotter and more unbearable with each frustrated heave. They had just entered the confined space moments ago during the beginning of their lunch hour – theoretically, a quick escape would have been easy.  
Unfortunately, Havoc and Breda were showing no sign of vacating the room outside any time soon. Besides, emerging from the closet now would be suspicious, even _if_ their original reasons for entering the small room in the first place were  _relatively_  innocent.   
"It's a miracle they didn't hear you shouting and come to investigate," Riza grumbled, unzipping her jacket and pinning her hair up in an attempt to cool down.  
Roy made a pained face. "Would it really be so bad to be caught with me in here?" Feigning insult, he laid a hand on his cheek. "Am really I such a destestable creature?"  
"You missed your calling, Colonel. Ever considered switching to theatre?"  
"Hah. Talk to Hughes about _that._ " An indignant look crossed his features, forgetting for a moment she wouldn't be able to see his expression in the unwavering darkness. Both knew that her anxiety and his discomfort arose from the fraternization laws that would, if they were caught, be the death of them both. Metaphorical death, that is.  _The punishment isn't anything more than expulsion…right?_

Roy decided they didn't need to talk about that.  
 __  
Having lost hope of getting out any time soon, Riza grumbled dejectedly into her hands. "All I had wanted was a shoulder rub."  
"Just a shoulder rub?" he could imagine her demeanor perfectly: tersed lips, eyebrows drawn in frustration over the sour turn of their current predicament.  
"Yes.  _Just_ a shoulder rub."  
"I thought removing your earrings was the signal for needing a shoulder massage, not taking your hair down."  
Hawkeye said nothing in response, but the glare she was undeniably shooting his way left a palpable tension in the air. "I told you before. I was cold."  
He fingered the hem of her shirt before sliding off the unzipped jacket with little resistance. "Just a shoulder rub," he repeated.  
She hummed in affirmation. "Just a shoulder rub." His own jacket was quickly dropped to the floor.  
"And nothing else?"  
"Nothing else."  
"Nothing."  
"Exactly."  
Roy studied her outline, barely lit by the light beginning to filter in under the door, smug. "But if you're so stiff, I'm sure a full body massage would be much more helpful." Gripping her waist, he brushed warm lips over the side of her jaw.  
He heard her breath catch in her throat, but she made no verbal response.

Perhaps he had gone too far.

They remained completely still for a moment in a stalemate of intent, completely forgetting the delicacy of their location. The latter was unsure of the wisdom of her next move, while the former unwilling to push her somewhere she did not wish to currently go.

Warm, even exhalations tickled her ear, sending little shivers down her spine despite the present heat. Riza carded a hand through his hair before pulling him up against her in a partial embrace. "Well - "

"...AND WHAT DID MY GIRLFRIEND SAY?" voices rose from outside the door before hurried footsteps, presumably Havoc in pursuit of a beau gone awry, clicked away. Another set of feet followed – possibly Breda, tagging along for the sake of entertainment. The outer room was empty.  
According to reason, they could and should leave. Merely go back to their day uninterrupted, as if the past fifteen minutes hadn't occurred.

Neither moved.

Riza exhaled. Gently, she cupped Roy's face in her hands and guided his lips to meet hers. It was a song they had heard before, a dance they did routinely. "Well," she repeated, tilting her head doubtfully, "I'm not sure how easy a 'full-body massage' would be in this small space. You generally tend to  _avoid_  unnecessary work, but - ah..." His slight grip on her waist tightened while his lips left warm, simmering impressions on the back of her neck, and fingers danced up her spine, cutting off her statement of approval with low, rumbling chuckle.  
"There's a first time for everything,  _Lieutenant_."


	8. Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm attempting to handle PTSD in an appropriate manner. I loathe fics where it's characterized as some cutesy little inconvenience. PTSD is a real affliction as a result of high-trauma scenarios. It's very real, and causes continual pain to numerous brave men and women around the world. Given the scenario, it would make sense that Roy and Riza, along with most of the soldiers, suffer from varying forms of PTSD.

"This is a test. Repeat, this is a test. All units stand clear for final weapons initiative."  
"Clear."  
"Fire when ready."

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tickticktick- fffwoooomm._

A burst of static before the verdict: "Looks like a go. Tell the Furher unit 463 is ready for business."  
"Yes, sir."

If you asked any of the commanding officers, the Ishvalan conflict was just that: a conflict. A tactical nightmare. It was merely a blip on the map. They played their parts like coaches vying for a crucial game that needed to be won.

But if you asked the soldiers, the ones being moved around on the board, they would disagree. War is not a game.  
Mortality rate is not a score.  
There is no prize for the victor.  
There is no distinguishable winner in war. Only death.

Did they deserve to die? The Ishvalan sympathizers, the Ishvalans themselves? The martyrs? The generals who controlled the board? The soldiers following the orders? The mothers, fathers, elders? The children, playing in the bones of their city?

The questions will never end, in the after. And the war will never be over, either. Not really. Mustang's hunched form is a testament to that. It's been years since the Ishvalan "conflict", yet the screams are still fresh in his ears; blood, still warm, on his soul.

Or so Riza supposes, as she watched shudders creep up his spine. She's lost him again. Trapped in another world, one of burning sand, one of torment. Boxed within walls of fire, reality shattered by bullets. Unreachable. It's a test of patience, of fortitude, incited by the rising stress by the coming of the Promise Day, triggered by the similarities between this stakeout and the evenings in Ishval. It's all she can do to drape a cotton blanket over his shoulders and set a cup of tea at his feet. Resting a head on his shoulder is a comfort to her, barely noticeable to him. The Colonel will be back, in a moment, after the memories have exhausted themselves. Until then, they wait in mutual agony.

The war would never be over.  
Not really.

* * *


End file.
